


Roque Guinart

by cognomen



Series: The Man of La Mancha [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Calvin the cat, Fix-It, M/M, almost regular domesticity, canon adjacent, semi functional fully adult men who have a borderline unhealthy work ethic and are also in love, typical cat ownership issues, work in progress tags may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: Carter tries not to feel that hitch of anxiety when she looks up and sees Agent Donnelly in the precinct again. She knows from Bill that he’s been back to work since January, limited to desk duty and not enjoying his meteoric fall from favor, though they have officially dropped the investigation into the events at Riker’s.She knows—and he knows—it’s still on his record. A stain that stays forever. Carter has faith it will make him better, but not that he’ll like it at all. Men have their pride.-Going into the back half of season 2 with my fix-it guns out and ready to rumble; Set around the events of episodes Proteus  & All In, and assuming the events of La Manchaverse.





	1. FEBRUARY 6th

Carter tries not to feel that hitch of anxiety when she looks up and sees Agent Donnelly in the precinct again. She knows from Bill that he’s been back to work since January, limited to desk duty and not enjoying his meteoric fall from favor, though they have officially dropped the investigation into the events at Riker’s.

She knows—and  _ he _ knows—it’s still on his record. A stain that stays forever. Carter has faith it will make him better, but not that he’ll like it at all. Men have their pride. 

He’s carrying a file and headed for her desk. Well, they have to figure this out sometime.

“Agent Donnelly,” She greets, throwing a stone to break the ice. Just another one of those things about her complicated life, having to carry around so many olive branches. “What can I do for you? You looking for Szymanski? He’s out on a follow up interview, but he should be back around by two.”

Donnelly joins her at her desk, coming to rest like uncertain flotsam against the other side. “Actually, I was looking for you.”

Carter senses a few pairs of eyes on them. Some, like Fusco, perched at his desk across from hers, are just cautiously curious. Detective Kane on the other hand, is watching hawk-eyed from across the squad room, mistrustful and ready to intervene.

“Well,” she says, watching him hold his professionalism with staples and thread. “Here I am.”

“I wanted to notify your department about an operation in your precinct,” Donnelly says, offering over a file. “The FBI has tracked several of Elias’ known associates to a Bodega operating in this precinct. Indications are that it’s some kind of front for his other operations.”

“Oh,” Carter says, blinking. “That’s organized crimes.”

_ Which he’d know is Szymanski’s unit, unless they are really bad at communicating. _ He gives her a really long look, and she realizes he’s connecting with her as a way of connecting with Reese and Finch, either to make amends or to warn them off or…  _ well I’d hope he’d learned enough not to try and lay a trap again… _

“But I can take the info and pass it along,” she offers, and he puts the file into her hands like a peace offering. She sees Kane relax and go back to his paperwork out of the corner of her eyes. “It’s good to see you up and around again. How have you been?’

For a second she sees the change in his expression to something hard and resentful as he looks at her and she feels a faintly renewed guilt for walking away more or less unscathed, before he lowers his gaze angrily toward the floor.

“I’m recovering,” he says, and then  he takes a deep breath. “Better every day.”

She realizes he’s not mad at  _ her _ , just the circumstances. To some extent, she understands. Life’s a  _ bitch _ .

“I’ll get this file to the people who need to see it,” she assures him; it has to be that he expects her to get it to Finch.

There’s a moment where he hesitates, and his dark eyes do something complicated with the reflections in the room. He shifts and starts to go, and Carter decides she doesn’t want to let it go on that note. They were almost friends once, and maybe with a little faith they could be for real.

“Donnelly,” she calls. He turns. “You have any plans for Valentine’s day?”

It’s just a normal question about a normal subject. He looks surprised by it, and she’s been a cop long enough to see the internal argument that suggest he’s deciding whether to brush her off or not before he finally settles on an answer. He glances at his watch as if just realizing they’re within the two-week radius of the holiday.

“Mmm,” he sub-vocalizes, and Carter realizes she’s touched on a good subject. “I hadn’t thought about it yet.”

“I know you’ve been busy Donnelly, but it’s next Friday,” she says, smiling. It’s almost normal. Casual. Pretty typical cop-stuff that work overtakes everything and you forget all your personal affairs.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had to think about it,” Donnelly admits. “I don’t suppose you’ve overheard, uh—”

He pauses, and briefly, very briefly, smiles a little sheepishly. “Any thoughts on where I might  _ still _ be able to get a reservation?”

“Can’t help you with that,” Carter says. “But  Szymanski’s a pretty classical sort of guy. You could try some roses. For a start.”

It doesn’t matter if he does or not, honestly, but at least he’ll go away thinking about it and it won’t be a scramble for whatever comes to hand on the fourteenth.

“You think that’ll work?”

“Sure!” Carter says. “But hedge your bets with food, too.”

When he goes, maybe she feels like things are evening out again, as she glances over the folder so she can summarize the information to Finch.


	2. FEBRUARY 14th

It’s been a long day by the time Bill gets home. Nick has a longer commute and seems mostly to have celebrated his return to work by staying at least an hour over every evening. Bill isn’t always the most timely either, so there’s a truce on the issue for now by virtue of mutual hypocrisy. He opens the apartment door and hears the sound of  Calvin jumping down from the kitchen counter just as he leans in and turns on the light.

“You’re not supposed to be up there,” he tells the cat as Calvin vanishes into the bedroom. An argumentative trilling meow makes Bill smile as he turns toward the kitchen. “You aren’t gonna talk me out of it.”

On the counter, he sees what was probably a very nice rose arrangement, now suspiciously tattered. Several half-chewed petals are scattered on the counter and kitchen tile, and Bill sighs, but he smiles anyway. The roses are nice, and they make the kitchen smell sweet, the way his mother’s garden used to when Bill would while away his summer months on a bench out there, reading. They must be from Nick, and a brief flash of guilt swims up that Bill only planned to cook dinner.

All his wistful reminiscence is cut short by the sight of a suspicious pile on the edge of the living room rug. Cat barf. Rose petal cat barf.

“Calvin,” he sighs again, and he goes to retrieve the cleaning supplies before he dials Nick.

On the third ring, he gets an answer from the  man himself.  _ He must still be at work. _ Since the accident, Nick has an almost superstitious aversion to answering his cell phone while he drives.

“Bill,” Nick sounds apologetic. “I’m so sorry, the time got away from me. I’m just finishing up—in fact, I’m finished. I can be home in an hour.”

Bill recognizes the tone as genuine, and he smiles at how close to normal all  _ that _ is. “I got your roses.”

“Oh.” Nick emits a nervous, tentative pause. Bill can almost hear the uncertain smile when Nick continues. “I hope this isn’t the part where you tell me you’re deathly allergic.”

“No, they were beautiful,” Bill says, using the past tense deliberately. “Calvin must have agreed. He ate half of them.”

The silence that follows is even more panicked before Nick finds the right words. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Bill assures. “I don’t think the roses  _ agree _ with him, but he ate my only houseplant once before and no permanent harm done.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick says, so genuinely that bill  _ has _ to smile to himself, even as he spot-scrubs the carpet.

“Don’t worry about it. I appreciated the gesture, and I wanted you to know, Nick,” Bill says, and he means it. “I’ll try to think romantic thoughts as I scrub the carpet. Are you on your way home?”

“Yes,” Nick says. “I was just wrapping up. I do have one question.”

“Go ahead,” Bill says, warmly anticipating a request for what kind of wine to bring home or a desert to pick up.

“You know that operation Organized Crimes ran two days ago at that bodega?”

_ Work _ . Of course. Bill remembers it. “Sure, they busted up that whole place. It was one of Elias’ fronts. Hard to pinpoint the purpose, as usual. They’re still sorting out what they have but from the paperwork I’ve been handed to do, it’s looking like it won’t go all the way back to Elias. Just a few more underlings go join him in jail.”

“I’ve been watching the logged evidence and we put in marked bills a few days ago,” Nick says. Bill can hear him moving now, probably headed toward his car. “I gave the 8th precinct notification of the operation, but I haven’t seen the marked bills in the evidence log.”

Bill sits up, thinking about it. He gathers a pile of sullied paper towels up. “Well, paperwork’s a mess right now. I’m sure it’ll turn up once all that gets to the digital stage. You could come down and put eyes on the evidence yourself, if that’d speed up the investigation for your team.”

“No, I’m sure you’re right,” Nick says. “I’ll be home soon. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Pick up some wine on the way, please.”

From the other room, the distinct sound of cat gagging suggests the festivities have only begun.

-


	3. MARCH 6th

 

When carter calls and asks for a favor, it’s unexpected. Donnelly has to consider for a moment if he really wants to get involved in whatever it is she’s looking into. Then, he remembers her attempts to bridge the gap in February. He’d taken her advice on a gift and at least in his mind that means he owes her one. He gets the case files she’s asked for together, a series of missing persons from all over the country. He recognizes the name attached to them, Agent Alan fahey in the CCSR branch. Tidy reports, as always.

He takes the bus so he won’t have to try and find a parking space, files in a document case inside his briefcase. Even the big, sturdy vehicle is buffeted by the wind of the oncoming storm.  The harsh rain hasn’t quite started to freeze, but when the sun’s down it will He plans on being home long before that, making sure the emergency lanterns in Bill’s apartment have good batteries in them.

Between the bus stop and the 8th precinct, he gets soaked even with an umbrella, and it pulls his shoulder to hold it up in the wind, taxing the muscles in a way that even his regular gym visits haven’t fully repaired.

By the time he gets inside, rain has penetrated his coat. He sets down the briefcase and pulls the umbrella closed. Carter looks up from the desk and gives him a tentative smile. He drips his way over to her desk. “Next time you need a favor, you can come pick up your files.”

“Well, at least you’re not a fair weather friend,” she says, warm in a way he isn’t expecting.

He dries his hands off on his pants  and opens his briefcase. “I guess not. I hope these files help you out.”

“Just something I’m looking into, connected to another missing person’s case,” she says, and Donnelly can see the tells of a CYA statement. Of course he knows that a homicide detective looking into missing persons is probably connected to the other unknown quantity in her life.

“Well, nothing really outstanding here,” Donnelly says. “I know Agent Fahey’s work and he’s thorough. There was only one connection in the cases, and it didn’t pan out.”

She takes the files and flips through them. “Well, thank you anyway. I’ll see if there’s any connection to mine and have any updates back to you sometime after this storm blows over.”

Donnelly has a moment where he wars with his conscience. He trusts Carter, but he’s just handed her files which he knows for a certainty will be going to help John warren and his handler. Whoever it was that called him the night he’d been shot. _Tried to warn me_ , he amends to himself. He hardly has to like it, but he remembers that they’d called Szymanski, too. Told him where Donnelly was.

He picks up his umbrella again and marks off one of those two debts as paid. He has a feeling before this is all over, he’ll discover others that he owes. “Well, I’m going to try and get home before I have to build an ark.”

She smiles at his sterile joke. “Thanks, Donnelly.”

He picks up his briefcase to go, and  Carter’s voice follows him last second. “Agent Donnelly?”

He turns and she gets up, approaching to close the distance and keep the conversation more private. “Look, a few days ago SAIC Moss got back in touch with me about the status of my application to become a field agent.”

They hadn’t told Donnelly when they’d made the decision, but then again of late, his ‘need to know’ circumstances have been drastically reduced. He suspects what he doesn’t know is about to be alleviated on the assumption that he does and nods instead of objecting. It wouldn’t be the first thing they know about each other they probably shouldn’t.

“He said it was rejected because of some red flags associated with Cal,” she explains, then hesitates and clarifies. “Calvin Beecher, a narcotics detective.”

Donnelly thinks he remembers this coming up in his scattered conversations with Moss. As far as Carter’s rejection goes, he’s actually sorry about it. Maybe it means they—whoever _they_ are that encompass Warren and his group—won’t have ears and eyes in the FBI. He still thinks she might have been a good asset, and he’s not sure if she’s really asking about Beecher or if she’s asking if Donnelly blocked her advance.  

“Moss found my recommendation to bring you on as a field agent in my old paperwork,” Donnelly explains. “He asked me if I’d still recommend you. I said yes, if you’d take it. The red flags aren’t my fault, Detective Carter.”

She looks at him, searching his face before she decides she believes him. She’s just as thorough as he remembers.  Finally, she asks him, “Can you tell me anything about why Cal was such an issue?”

She’s asking Donnelly if she can trust a friend. His thoughts crash against that a little, and he has to think back to Moss going over the file with him, a few weeks back. At the same time, he tries to pick and sort through why Carter is so curious—maybe her back is really against the wall on who she can trust. He’s heard Szymanski express much the same sentiment a few times, venting stress with his feet propped up in Donnelly’s lap and Calvin kneading his chest.

“I looked at your work on the Man in the Suit and I saw...  diligence,” Donnelly says, noting the guarded look she gets when he mentions Warren. “Quality police work, centered on a strong moral compass.”

Her jaw eases a little and she nods for him to continue.

Donnelly does after a pause to collect his thoughts. “What I hear about Beecher doesn’t make me inclined to put him in the same category.”

He can tell she doesn’t like it, maybe they have a stronger connection than he guessed. He feels the awkward certainty that he’s just put his foot in a romance, and he’s not fully sure if it’s actually better that she knows, or if that’s just a stupid platitude. “I’m sorry, Carter.”

“It’s okay,” she says making a halfway defeated gesture. “Better I have some idea than none. How’d the roses go over?”

“Well,” Donnelly both answers and temporizes, hiking his briefcase up again. “The cat loved them, anyway. I think Bill took pictures, you should ask him.”

She assures him she will, and he forges his way back out into the storm.


End file.
